


Negotiations and Love Songs

by Teaotter



Category: The Firm (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Consent Play, F/M, First Time, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Open Relationships, Plotty, Post-Series, Power Dynamics, Threats of Violence, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:56:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaotter/pseuds/Teaotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They did it: They got the charges against Patrick Walker dismissed. Which gets Joey Morolto – and the Chicago mob – out of Mitch’s life for good. But in the process, he's fueled a mob war and made an enemy of a murderous Russian gangster.</p><p>If Mitch is going to set things right – and keep his family safe – he's going to need help from the one person he hoped never to see again: Joey Morolto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiations and Love Songs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> _Negotiations and love songs are often mistaken for one and the same._  
>  \-- Paul Simon, "Train in the Distance"
> 
> I have to thank my betas on this story, Persiflage1 and Jessalae and especially Likeadeuce, who had the guts to tell me that there were ways to make this last-minute behemoth better and the talent to give me a road map for getting there. This would have been a very different -- and considerably less good -- story without your suggestions and insights. Thank you!
> 
> All remaining mistakes are my own damn fault.

Mitch has never been happier to hear a judge’s gavel pound. He can’t control his sigh of relief, the sudden draining of tension he’s been carrying for weeks now. They did it: they got the charges against Patrick Walker dismissed. Which gets Joey Morolto – and the Chicago mob – out of Mitch’s life for good.

And now they're free. He glances at the back of the courtroom, where Ray and Tammy are waiting for him. Tammy's bright red hair shines brilliantly under the lights, her smile matching Ray's as they see Mitch looking. Ray gives him two thumbs up, and they both laugh. They'll probably want to celebrate tonight.

Mitch just wants to go home, crack open a beer, and let someone else handle the big stuff for a while. He runs a hand through his sandy blond hair and down the lapel of his suit coat. If he could afford to burn this suit, along with the memory of working for the mob, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

The echoes of the judge’s final words don’t have time to fade before the packed courtroom erupts into surprised clamor. Most of the audience doesn’t care what the arrest of Viktor Kurylenko could possibly have to do with Patrick’s guilt or innocence – they’re just thrilled to see Mitch McDeere pull off another round of legal wizardry. The press will no doubt run the story for days. 

Mitch turns to his (now, thankfully, _former_ ) client. “Congratulations, Patrick. You’re a free man.”

“Thanks to you.” The younger man gives him a relieved smile and offers a hand. “I’m glad to have you on our side.”

Mitch eyes the hand for a moment before shaking it once, politely. “Had me. Past tense.” He looks over to where Joey Morolto had been sitting with his right-hand man, Sal. No one would mistake them for anything but mob: the dark suits, the perfectly shined shoes, and the muscle that goes with using your fists along with your guns. Sal is broader than Joey, and older, but otherwise, they're a matched set.

Well, that and Joey's grin as he fights the tide of people leaving the courtroom. Joey catches Mitch’s eye and the grin gets a shade broader, and Mitch finds himself smiling back. Behind the self-confidence Joey put on like a coat, he'd been honestly worried for his friend. Now that the case is over, Mitch can afford to be glad for both of them.

“Congratulations, Counselor,” Joey says when he reaches them. “I'm throwing a party at Roma tonight to celebrate Patrick's release. You should come by.”

“I'd think you'd have more important things to worry about,” Mitch says, lowering his voice. “Didn't the Russians say they'd go after you if Kurylenko was arrested?” 

Joey shrugs, his nonchalance too perfect to be real. “We can handle the Russians. Who won't be any happier with you. If you'd like, I can keep my men watching your house –”

“No. Thank you for the offer.” With Kurylenko in jail, none of the Russians should know about Mitch’s involvement in the investigation. He's just Patrick's lawyer to them, and the sooner he breaks with the Moroltos, the more likely he is to stay unnoticed. “You told me, if I got Patrick off these charges, we were quits. That you'd leave me and my family alone.”

Joey holds Mitch's gaze for a long moment before putting out his hand. “I told you before, I keep my promises. We're square.”

Mitch bites back the urge to thank him again. He was threatened with bodily harm if he didn’t take this case; he doesn’t have to express gratitude for his safety. But he does put out his hand to shake Joey's. “Mr. Morolto.”

That surprises a laugh out of Joey. “Is that what it takes to finally get a little respect out of you?”

“Respect is earned.” The platitude falls out of Mitch's mouth before he can catch it, and he flinches a little. 

But Joey just nods at him, and Mitch lets himself relax. “It is. You should still come to the party. No strings,” Joey rolls his eyes when Mitch opens his mouth to protest. “It's just a party.”

“No, thank you.” Mitch glances back at Tammy and Ray. Ray makes a 'hurry up' gesture at him. “I have other plans.”

“If you say so. But you should really learn to enjoy your victories. You only get so many,” Joey says. “Give my best to your family, Mr. McDeere.” 

Mitch watches them go. Joey slings his arm across Patrick's shoulders on their way out of the room, and that obvious affection makes Mitch wish the world were different. In another life, Joey Morolto would just be a startlingly charismatic college student with a bright future. He’d never have killed anyone, and his best friend wouldn’t have been framed for murder.

Of course, in that world, Mitch would still be working for the mob in Memphis. Or dead. It’s strange to think how the choices he made changed so many lives - Tammy would still be with Eddie Lomax, Ray would still be in prison, and Joey wouldn’t be stuck in his father’s shoes.

A hand touches Mitch’s shoulder, and he turns to see Louis Coleman standing behind him. The look on the Marshal’s face is enough to shake Mitch out of his introspection. “What’s wrong?”

“Kurylenko escaped custody. Someone crashed an SUV into the black and white he was riding in; both officers are dead.” 

Mitch closes his eyes briefly. With Kurylenko still out there, his family is still in danger. His eyes move automatically to Tammy and Ray, the old instincts popping up, telling him to get his family to safety. “Abby and Claire –“

“– Are fine, my people picked them up.” 

“Thank you.” Mitch lets the relief sift through him. His wife and daughter are safe, for the moment.

“But I can only get you a couple of days at a safe house,” Louis warns him. “No one in the Marshal's office is willing to touch you, now that you've worked for Morolto.”

“Thank you, Louis,” Mitch says. He looks at Ray again, and he knows from the way Ray touches Tammy's shoulder that they know something's wrong. Both of them are ready to move; the habits of ten years in Witness Protection don't disappear overnight. “That should be enough time to plan out our next move.”

“There’s something else.” Louis leans in slightly, lowering his voice, almost whispering in the nearly-empty courtroom. “Tarrance is missing, too.”

Mitch sucks in a breath, disbelieving. He knows that Wayne Tarrance had been helping Kurylenko in return for information on the Russian mob, but he can’t believe the FBI agent would be part of killing police officers. “Do you think Tarrance is behind this?”

“I don’t know what to think. But we can’t discount the possibility.”

Mitch nods. “Let me know if you find him.”

*****

The safe house is like the dozen others Mitch and his family have been in over the years – beige, drab, featureless, and boring. There is just enough art on the walls to keep from feeling claustrophobic without actually expressing any personality whatsoever. The blinds are, of course, drawn tightly across the windows.

As soon as they all settle in – designating bedrooms and emergency exits – Claire takes a book to the living room and flops on the couch, headphones pulled deliberately over her ears. She leaves the television on, the sound just loud enough to screen any conversation she doesn't want to hear. In the kitchen, Mitch watches Abby's eyes follow their daughter.

“She's not doing too badly,” Mitch offers, and Abby sighs.

“She's practically got a punch card for safe houses at this point.” Abby pours herself a cup of coffee and leans against the cabinet. “I think she's given up on going home. For good, I mean.”

“We'll get through this, I swear.” Mitch puts as much confidence into the words as he can, but from Abby's wry smile, she can see right through him. As usual. “I didn't work for the Moroltos just so we can get chased out of town by the Russians.”

“Good thing.” Ray's voice precedes him into the room. He ducks in and grabs the coffee pot, pouring two cups in quick succession. “Because the Marshals won't take us in this time. If we run, we're doing it on our own.”

“Are we running?” Tammy comes in behind Ray and takes the second mug. “Thanks, Babe.”

“No problem, Mrs. McDeere.” They smile at each other, the newlywed glow still present for them despite the circumstances.

“We're not running,” Mitch says firmly.

“So what's the plan?” Tammy asks.

“I don’t know,” Mitch admits. “We have to figure out how to get the Russians to leave us alone.”

“That won't be easy.” Ray takes a sip of his coffee. “Kurylenko is one of their top lieutenants, and he’s got a personal grudge against you, Mitch. If he wants to put a hit out on you, there’s not much we can do about it.”

There's a few minutes of silence as they all digest that thought, imagining exactly what the Russians might do.

“Unless they turn on him,” Abby says slowly. “Would they listen to him, if they knew he was informing on them to the FBI?”

Mitch frowns. “We'll have to give them proof, something they can't deny.”

Abby drops her eyes to her coffee cup. “So we give them the recordings of Kurylenko talking to Tarrance.”

“I promised Louis I wouldn't use those recordings.” Louis hadn’t been willing to tell Mitch how he’d gotten the thumb drive with the records of Tarrance’s phone calls with Kurylenko, just that it would cost him his career if Mitch brought it forward. 

“Not as part of the case against Kurylenko,” Tammy points out. “But it's not as if the Russians are going to hand that drive to the prosecutor. It'll never make it to court.”

Ray snorts. “Neither will Tarrance, if the Russians think he was trying to start a mob war between them and the Moroltos.”

“Better him than us.” Tammy waves a hand at Mitch's look. “I know, we can’t be _sure_ it was Tarrance’s idea to pin Charlotte Miller's murder on Patrick. But Tarrance _was_ helping frame Patrick. He knew what would happen if the truth came out.”

“He was still going after criminals,” Mitch argues.

“I have to disagree with you, bro. Gang wars aren't clean.” Ray eyes dart around the room, seeing nothing, and Mitch wonders what he’s remembering. Whatever it is, it takes Ray a minute to shake it off. “They're messy. Innocent people get killed, and Tarrance signed on for that. I say we let him hang for it.”

Mitch knows he’s losing this argument, but he doesn’t like where this is headed. He believes in the law, that there’s a right way to get justice. And this isn’t it. “Aren't we doing the same thing, handing him over? Letting the bad guys take out the bad guys?”

“Mom!” Claire comes running into the room, her face pale, and for a second all Mitch knows is that she’s scared. His heart rate picks up before she hurls herself into Abby’s arms. 

“Claire, what’s wrong?”

Mitch’s eyes trail behind her to the living room. He sees Ray move slightly in front of Tammy, but nothing follows the girl into the kitchen. Mitch thinks she’s crying, from the way she’s breathing hard, but when she lifts her head from Abby’s embrace her eyes are dry.

“There was a bomb. On the TV.” Claire swallows once, and Mitch can see her pull herself together. It reminds him so much of her mother. “There was a bomb at your office, Dad. It was on the news.”

Mitch pushes past her into the living room. The huge TV shows a street scene, the camera panning across somewhere Mitch thinks he ought to know, but he can't make it out. The front of the building where his office had been was unrecognizable. There is glass all over the street, and sooty char marks up the wall from the blast. 

_“This is live from northwest Washington, DC, where a bomb blast shook this usually quiet neighborhood and destroyed several local offices. Including that of Mitch McDeere, the attorney who broke the Noble Insurance scandal a few weeks ago. Investigators don't yet know if this bombing was related to that case. As of this time, we have been unable to reach Mr. McDeere for comment...”_

Ray mutes the news feed again and drops onto the couch. “It’s started.”

A hand touches Mitch's arm. He glances back at Abby, whose fingers tighten at whatever she sees on his face. “Your mother…”

“Do you think it’ll make national news?”

“Mitch. That was CNN.”

Mitch blinks once; he hadn’t noticed. “I’ll call her.”

He uses one of the clean cell phones from their emergency bags to call his mother in Florida. It’s an awkward call, and Mitch peers around the edge of the blinds at the world outside while she calms down. He can’t explain what’s really going on, and she doesn’t believe him when he says he’s fine. She’s worried that he’s going to disappear again, and he can’t really blame her for that. Ten years in Witness Protection leaves its mark on the people you leave behind, too.

After she hangs up, Mitch checks his voice mail. The box is overflowing, mostly with calls from reporters asking for a statement. He skips those, as well as the panicked message his mother left before he reached her. He checks the one from Louis, but it’s just a reminder that he’s not supposed to be checking his voice mail. It would be a violation of the Witness Protection rules, but it’s not like the Marshals are willing to keep them, anyway. 

The last one is from Joey Morolto. Mitch frowns out the window, finger hovering over the ‘skip’ key, but he doesn’t make up his mind before the message plays.

_“Patrick figures you’ll be halfway to Albuquerque by now, but I think I know you better than that. I won’t even tell you to be safe. Just watch your back.”_

The message leaves Mitch oddly off-balance. He wants Joey out of his life; he wouldn’t even be in this mess if Joey hadn’t forced him to defend Patrick. At the same time, Mitch finds it strangely warming that Joey would have the impulse to call him, just ten minutes after the news broke. Mitch knows that, if the bomb had been at Roma, he would have done the same thing. 

By silent consensus, they wait until Abby comes back from Claire’s room to get back to the plan.

Ray starts. “It’s not just us. According to my contacts, there have been a couple of drive-bys already, related to this war. No one’s picking sides yet, but there’s a lot of people heading for the hills. This is going to get ugly, and fast.”

“It could still blow over.” Mitch can’t make his tone convincing, even to himself. 

“It’s not going to blow over,” Ray says. “Once this war spreads out of DC, there’s gonna be blood all over the place – Chicago, New York. It’s going to become personal fast, and once the grudges start, it’s an eye for an eye until everyone’s blind. We need to stop it now.”

“Ray’s right.” Tammy touches Mitch’s arm soothingly, but her voice is firm. “We’re talking about hundreds of people, some of them innocent people, being killed in this mob war. If we can stop it, we have to.” 

“Even if it means setting both the Russians and the Moroltos on Tarrance?”

“He was helping Kurylenko frame Patrick.” Abby says firmly. “We know he planted evidence. He was FBI; he had to know the consequences of setting the Moroltos and the Russians at each other’s throats.”

Mitch takes a deep breath and forces himself to consider the idea. “I agree, we need to do something. But I’m not willing to let Tarrance hang for this. If he’s guilty, fine, I say let him stand trial for it. If he’s not, then he doesn’t deserve to be the scapegoat for us.”

“We don’t have to tell them he started the war,” Abby points out. “There’s what, thirty hours of recordings on there? It’ll take them a while to listen to the whole thing.”

“They might not even bother,” Tammy cuts in. “They don't care about Charlotte Miller. Once they know Kurylenko’s a snitch, will they really care about the rest of it?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Mitch doesn't like this. But if they tamper with the recording, the Russians might discover it and decide the conversations were faked. So it's all or nothing. “But at least he'll have the chance to turn himself in.”

“We can still run,” Abby offers, reaching over to take Mitch's hand. 

Mitch remembers Joey's voice on the phone. _I think I know you better than that._ It's true; if there's even a thin chance to get through this another way, Mitch won't run.

“No,” Mitch says, and it feels less like breaking and more like admitting to something long since broken. “Tarrance is going to have to come clean on his own, or face the consequences. We should set up a meeting with the Russians. Do we have any contacts who can get us in?”

Ray shakes his head. “That's not my crowd, unfortunately. The head guy is Luka Karpov; that’s who we’d need to convince. But I don’t know how to reach him.”

“I bet Joey could set up a meeting.” Abby says the words slowly, as if she hates to say them as much as Mitch hates to hear them.

“But they’re at war,” he protests. “Why would Karpov listen to Joey?”

“Because the Russians don’t want this war any more than we do,” Ray retorts, cocking his head as he thinks through the idea. “Nobody wins, like this. People get hurt, the Feds crack down. It’s bad for business. Karpov won’t trust any of the Moroltos, but he might listen.”

“It’s the best shot we’ve got,” Tammy says.

Mitch shakes his head. “The last thing I want is to owe Joey Morolto another favor.”

“You won’t owe him.” Ray shifts forward, eyes lighting up as the plan comes together for him. “You’re doing him a favor. He’s got enough problems on his plate right now without a war on his hands. If he can find a way out of this with his pride intact, he’ll go for it.”

“I don’t like doing business with him at all.” Mitch takes Abby’s hand. She looks back at him steadily, as if she hadn’t been just this close to leaving him after the Noble case. As if dealing with the Chicago mob again is something this family can survive. 

“I don’t like it, either,” she says, squeezing his hand tightly. “But it’s our best chance. I say we go for it.”

Mitch curls his fingers around hers. “Then let’s do it. Joey said they were having a party at Roma tonight, celebrating Patrick’s release. We can talk to him there.”

Ray grins. “Then I guess we’re going to a party.”

Mitch feels a reluctant excitement slip through him. This is his family, fighting to stay together. Their plan is dangerous and probably mad, but Mitch wouldn’t want to be with anyone else.

*****

The sign in front of Roma says the restaurant is closed for a private party. But the big guy at the front nods familiarly at Mitch and Ray and holds the door for them, as if they were invited guests. Mitch supposes they are, just not the way Joey intended. Inside, the place is bustling, the tables full and men standing three-deep at the bar.

Mitch scans the crowd as the hostess takes their coats. Barry Vance and Oscar Goodman are there, still in their double-breasted business suits, and it almost makes Mitch laugh. Of course the two most famous mob lawyers in DC are invited to this party. They look out of place amongst the thick-set bruisers that make up most of Joey's men here in town. Mitch assumes most of them are carrying guns tonight; there are a lot of suspicious wrinkles along the shoulders and underarms of otherwise very expensive suits.

Sal, at one end of the bar, catches Mitch's eye in the mirror and nods toward the back. There's a small but raucous group there, laughing. Joey is standing with one arm thrown casually across Patrick’s shoulders. He's talking, but Mitch can't make it out from the general noise. The others are listening, though, and it's obvious that Joey is the center of attention. Holding court, Mitch supposes.

Mitch knows the instant Joey sees him. Their eyes meet and.. something flashes across Joey's face too fast for Mitch to read. Joey finishes his sentence without looking away from Mitch, laughs at someone's response, and disengages from the group. Patrick looks up and smiles, but goes back to talking. Joey starts moving toward them, touching shoulders and murmuring greetings as he goes, playing the gracious host, but never dropping his eyes from Mitch.

Honestly, it makes Mitch want to turn and run, because from the expression on Joey’s face, their showing up has made his night. Mitch doesn’t want to be the center of Joey’s attention; he doesn’t want that intensity aimed at him. But he needs this plan to work, and the plan needs Joey's cooperation. So Mitch pastes his best smile on his face and waits.

“Mitch!” Joey pulls him into a half-hug before Mitch realizes it's happening. “It’s good to see you! Let me get you a drink –“

“Not right now,” Mitch puts in hastily. Joey keeps his hand on Mitch's shoulder, warm and heavy, and it's all Mitch can do not to twitch away from it. “I’m not here for the party. I need to speak with you.”

“It’s always something with you, isn’t it?” Joey’s grip tightens, but then he drops his hand and nods. Mitch refuses to admit that his shoulder feels colder. “Why don’t you leave your brother here at the bar, and we can go talk in my office.”

Mitch glances briefly at Ray, who nods faintly and steps toward Sal's end of the bar. Mitch follows Joey into the back, where Joey closes his office door behind them.

“So. What brings you here, Mitch?” Joey asks as he sits behind the desk.

Mitch takes the offered chair, knowing that if he keeps standing he'd need to pace. Pacing shows nervousness, and he can't afford to let his nerves show tonight. Joey has to know the general subject of Mitch's request, even if he can't guess the details, and it's Mitch's job to convince him to agree. It's just like opening arguments in front of a jury, and that thought lets Mitch pull on his most reasonable tone. “I need you to set up a meeting between me and Luka Karpov.”

“Luka Karpov.” Joey whistles, the kind of disapproving sound people make to impress an audience. Mitch isn't the only one grandstanding tonight. “Some people say he’s the head of the Russian mob’s east coast operations. He’s a tough man to get a hold of. Have you tried contacting his secretary?” 

The last is said with such utterly bland helpfulness that Mitch can't hold back his amusement, though he manages to strangle the laugh into a snort. If he's honest, it's something Mitch enjoys about dealing with Joey: the man can twist words with the best of them. Mitch is used to talking circles around people with ease. He suspects sometimes that Joey is used to it, too.

Mitch tries on a frown. “I'm not in the mood for games tonight, Joey.”

“Then in all seriousness, Mr. McDeere,” Joey cracks a smile. “Luka Karpov is a dangerous man. I’m sure you know that. So why would you want to meet with him?”

“Because I can prove that Viktor Kurylenko was an FBI informant.”

The smile disappears. “Can you, now? I suppose that explains why the FBI would help him frame Patrick. It’s strange, I don’t remember you telling me that before.” 

Mitch is pretty sure that the threat edging its way into Joey's voice is just posturing, but he can't afford to give ground here. “Our agreement wasn't for me to tell you everything I found out. I was supposed to get Patrick released, and I did.”

“Yes, you did.” The smile is back, curling into a sneer. “And in honor of our deal, I'm leaving you alone. I don't owe you any favors.”

Mitch tenses, hiding it with a wave of his hand. Big gestures show confidence, and he needs it. This is the tough part, getting Joey's help without changing their previous agreement. 

“With Kurylenko a known informant, the Russians won't care if he goes to prison. They won’t have a reason to go to war with you.”

Joey is already shaking his head. “That's not good enough. One of their men framed Patrick. Now, maybe they didn't know what he was doing. But if I just back off, I lose face. You know how I hate to lose face, Mitch.”

The statement makes Mitch pause. He'd been assuming that Joey just wants something new to hold over Mitch's head, an excuse to make Mitch's life miserable. But what if it really is a question of face? Most of Joey's men want Mitch dead; they barely tolerated protecting him while he was defending Patrick. If helping Mitch undermines Joey's authority, the war might actually be preferable.

Which leaves Mitch with one card left to play, and he can only hope it's enough. “What if my evidence shows that it was an FBI agent who suggested framing Patrick for the murder?”

That brings Joey's eyebrows up, his demeanor suddenly serious. “Are you saying the FBI wanted to start a war?”

Mitch doesn't let his eyes drop. He'd already agreed to sell Tarrance out; hoping to give the man time to turn himself in was just a sop to Mitch's conscience. It still burns to say it. “I'm saying that this particular FBI agent, yes. That's what he did.”

Joey shifts back in his chair, his expression uncertain for the first time in this conversation. “You know, Mitch. If I buy this, if I let you take it to Karpov – you’re signing this FBI guy's death warrant. Are you ready for that?”

“I'm hoping the Russians don't get far enough in the recordings before he turns himself in.” It sounds pathetic, spelled out that way. But it's the only answer he has.

“So you aren't planning on telling them. But you're telling me.” Joey pauses, his expression unreadable. “Do you think I won't go after him?”

“I think – ” Mitch can't make himself finish that sentence. “I think I need your help.”

“You always surprise me.” Joey studies Mitch's face for a few minutes. “I didn't think you were the kind of man who’d buy his own life with someone else’s.”

This time, Mitch has to look away. “I’ll do anything for my family, Joey. You of all people should know that.”

“I guess I do.” Joey stands up, with the air of someone ending a meeting. “I’ll make some phone calls. As a favor to you.”

Mitch finds himself on his feet, scrambling to get the conversation back on track. “This information benefits you as well.”

“Only if I'm going to use it.” Joey leans his hip against the corner of his desk. He's a little too close to Mitch, almost eye to eye. “And I think I'd rather hold it back for now. All those times you lectured me on my morals! You know I'm gonna treasure this.”

Mitch's face burns, but if Joey is willing to put off going after Tarrance, Mitch has to consider the deal. “So where does that leave me?”

“I just want us to be friends, Mitch.” Joey smiles, missing innocent by a mile. “You know I can be a good friend to have.”

Joey wants to continue their association. Professionally, Mitch assumes, and it's everything he's fought against. Being a lawyer for the mob was bad enough when it was temporary; Mitch isn't sure he can handle something more long-term. “I don't need your kind of friendship.”

Joey tilts his head to the side, quizzically. “And yet I’m the first person you call when you need help. Tell the truth, Mitch: You like me.”

Joey's smile this time is teasing, challenging, and Mitch honestly doesn't know what to say. Sometimes he _does_ like Joey. But Mitch can't forget that Joey has threatened his life more than once. Hell, Joey shot at him; missing deliberately, but still. Whatever agreement Mitch thinks they're making here, it doesn't change the fact that none of this is safe.

Mitch ought to walk away. Take his family and run. This mob war isn't their fault; if Joey really doesn't want it stopped, there's nothing Mitch can do. But Mitch doesn't want to run, he wants to fight. And if that means fighting Joey Morolto a little while longer, he's willing to do that.

“I don't want to be your friend, Joey,” Mitch says, determined. “But if that's the best offer you've got, I'll take it.”

Joey looks at him consideringly for a moment. “What if I gave you a better offer?”

Mitch doesn't expect the kiss. It's slow but not hesitant, more a statement than a question, and Mitch finds himself responding. Something clicks over in his head, and suddenly the pounding of his heart makes sense. He remembers the feel of the other man's body underneath him that day in the parking lot, the way the adrenaline of hiding from the shooter had mixed with the scent of Joey's cologne and made it impossible for Mitch to catch his breath.

Then Mitch remembers why they were in that parking lot. He pulls back, putting a few feet of space between them and scrambling to get his thoughts back in order. “This is a bad idea.”

“But it feels good.” Joey raises his hand, slowly enough to telegraph that he's not moving it closer to Mitch. Instead he rubs his thumb across his own mouth, catching the hint of moisture there, and Mitch sways forward before he can stop himself. 

They both want this. Mitch can't help but imagine it. He still has Joey's taste in his mouth, ghosts of the warmth of his hands on the back of Mitch's neck. They could do this, up against the wall, or bent over the desk, and Mitch has to stop this. Because everything would be perfect until it was over, and then Joey would still be the head of the Chicago mob and Mitch would still be trying to get away from everything Joey stands for. Mitch has to stop this, now, find some way to get Joey to leave this alone, but he can't think straight. “I can't. I'm married!”

Joey's expression darkens. “Do you want to invite her to join us?”

Mitch is swinging his fist before he thinks about it, the anger fast and hot, but not fast enough to connect. Joey ducks aside and catches Mitch's arm, pinning it behind Mitch's back and pushing him up against the wall. And just like that, Mitch is hard, aching where his pants are too tight. Joey is, too, Mitch can feel it when Joey shoves him into the wall, the line of his body blazing against Mitch's back. 

“Now, was that a smart move, Counselor?” Joey's breath is hot against Mitch's ear, and it makes Mitch shiver. “When your family needs my help?”

The question sends a cold shock down Mitch's spine, but it doesn't shake his arousal. He wishes it did. “Are those your terms, then? Sex with you, in return for a few phone calls?”

“Is that how you want to play it?” Mitch struggles against Joey's hold again, and Joey shoves him hard enough that Mitch can feel the grain of the wall scrape along his cheek. “You’re the one who said he’d do anything for his family.”

Then the hands on Mitch are gone, and Joey steps back, breathing hard. He takes off his suit jacket, his movements carefully precise, and saunters back behind his desk. Mitch has a sudden image of Joey rolling up his sleeves before punching someone tied to a chair. Mitch doesn't let himself think about whether the thought frightens him or makes him harder. He's afraid it might be both.

With Joey back behind the desk, Mitch has a clear path to the door. If he were free to take it. He doesn't.

“Since you seem to think it's a serious question: No.” Joey slouches back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk. His body language is all calm arrogance, but his eyes are watching Mitch closely. “The sex is just a friendly offer. Nothing changes if you turn me down.”

“Nothing changes.” Mitch loads the words with as much sarcasm as he can. He rubs the stinging side of his face.

“That's right.” Joey's eyes follow Mitch's hand, but he doesn't move.

“What about the meeting with Karpov?”

“I already told you, Mitch. I'll make some phone calls.” Joey grins up at him, but Mitch doesn't believe it. There's too much tension in the room. “I’m happy to help out my friends.”

And that's the closer. Mitch can accept the role of “friend,” or strike out into more intimate territory. But he's not going to walk out of this room with Joey Morolto gone from his life, not if he wants the meeting with Karpov.

Mitch doesn't know what he wants, other than room to think and out of this conversation. But he needs the meeting with Karpov. So he nods, slowly. “I'll leave my number with Sal; you can reach me when the meeting's set.”

“All right.”

Mitch turns to leave. The doorknob is cool in his palm before Joey speaks again.

“Mitch.” There's a pause while Mitch doesn't turn around, doesn't leave, doesn't move. “You haven’t said no.”

Mitch thinks about leaving anyway, thinks about ignoring the pounding of his heart and just walking back out into the bar and going home. He knows Joey won't stop him, not tonight. 

That thought lets him turn around. Joey's face is serious, the tension in his voice matched by the set of his shoulders. Mitch thinks this is what uncertainty looks like on Joey Morolto. It doesn't fit him. 

“That isn’t the same thing as saying yes.”

Joey nods once, and something unclenches in Mitch's chest. “I'll see you around, Mitch.”

*****

Mitch doesn't tell Ray about Joey's.... offer.

They make it back to the safe house and give Abby and Tammy the news: that Joey Morolto will set up the meeting with Karpov. That he wants to be “friends.” That Mitch has no idea what that means.

Mitch manages to hold on to the rest of it – his anger, and confusion, and shame – until they've gone to bed. He lies in the dark next to Abby, listening to her breathe and trying to figure out what to do. He knows she's still awake; one of the benefits of being married for as long as they have is knowing the other person, inside out. He missed her so much when she left, missed the way the mattress shifts under her body. Missed the sound of her breathing. Missed having someone to share his secrets with.

She curls into his side and rests her cheek against his shoulder. “If you aren't going to tell me,” she says gently, “stop thinking about it so loudly. “

Mitch takes a deep breath. “I told him about Tarrance,” he confesses.

But Abby doesn't pull away, or get angry. Instead, she puts her arms around him and holds on tightly. “I'm so sorry, Mitch. What is he going to do?”

“Nothing, I think.” Mitch leans into her touch, taking the comfort she offers. He has been trying to decode his conversation with Joey all night. “Unless the Russians bring it to him.”

“I don't understand,” Abby says, and Mitch strokes the hair back from her forehead.

“He knows I want to give Tarrance time to come in,” he says softly. “I think Joey's trying to help.”

“Or maybe he just needs a hotshot new mob lawyer.” 

“I don't think so.” Mitch drops his face into her hair. “He came on to me.”

Abby's breath stutters. “Joey Morolto's gay?”

“It didn't seem like a good time to question him about his sexual orientation.”

Abby strokes a hand down his arm in apology. “I'm just surprised. I thought the Italian mob were, well. Homophobic.”

“Either they're not, or he doesn't care if I know.” Mitch shifts restlessly against the bed. “It's not like I can take an ad out in the paper.”

“Mitch. Did he.” Abby freezes. “Did he make it a condition of helping us? Because –”

“No.”

“– You can tell me, if he did.”

“No.” Mitch takes her hand. “He said it was just an offer. And I think he actually means that.”

Abby squeezes his fingers, but the tension doesn't leave her. Mitch figures that's okay; he's not exactly relaxed now, either.

“Any offer, coming from him right now.” Abby hesitates, then starts over. “That's something we’d have a damn hard time refusing.”

It's part of what Mitch has been thinking about. That they need Joey's help on this too badly. “Do you think I should have said yes?”

“No!” Abby hugs him tightly to her. “That's not what I mean. I just. There’s a level of coercion here that he has to be aware of. He knows what the power dynamics are. He was threatening to kill us not three weeks ago! He’s pressuring you. Just asking, is pressuring you. He has to know that.”

“I think he does.” Suddenly, the conversation with Joey comes into focus. “I think he was trying not to push. Not until..." Mitch trails off, unsure how to explain what happened.

“Until what?” 

“I took a swing at him,” Mitch admits. “After he kissed me. He caught my fist like it was _nothing_. Pinned me up against the wall. He didn't do anything but that. But. I wanted him to.”

“Mitch –”

“He asked, if that was how I wanted to play it. He asked, and I didn't say anything,” Mitch says, knowing that if he doesn't get it all out now, he might not be able to tell her. “But I wanted him. I still do.”

Abby leans up and turns on the bedside lamp so she can see his face. The soft light brings out the gold highlights in her hair, and Mitch missed her so much. He never wants her to doubt him again, but he can't hold things back. Even if he should.

“You haven't mentioned anyone,” she says slowly. “Not since we left the program.”

“I haven't been looking.” It was never frequent for either of them to want someone outside their relationship, but it had happened. They always talked about it first. 

“Maybe you should be.” Abby's voice is low, and it makes Mitch ache to hear the tremble in it. “Joey Morolto isn't some guy you can just pick up in a bar.”

“I know –”

“You put his father in prison.” Abby takes Mitch's face in her hands and makes him look at her. “He pointed a gun at you and pulled the trigger –”

"He pointed it _past_ me -"

"He wanted to frighten you," she says firmly. "And he succeeded. Are you sure you want to sleep with someone who shoots at people when he doesn't like what they're saying?"

"I kept arguing, Abby, and he didn't hurt me."

“He could have.”

“But he didn't.” Mitch takes her hands in his and presses his forehead against her. “He backed off, Abby. When I didn't say yes, he backed off. He doesn't want to hurt me.”

“You're asking me to trust him -” 

“I'm asking you to trust me. I know my feelings don't make any sense, here. It's just.” Mitch takes a deep breath, and another, trying to find the words to describe what he knows in his bones.

“Just what?”

“Something changed.” Mitch closes his eyes and lets himself breathe in the smell of her skin. “Working with Joey, something changed. He doesn't look at me the same way.”

“He killed his consigliere in cold blood.” Abby shakes her head. “Whatever you think is different about him, he's still a murderer.”

“I know that.”

“Have you changed your mind, then?” Abby settles herself more firmly on her side of the bed. “Do you _want_ to be a mob lawyer?”

“No!” More quietly, Mitch says, “I couldn't live with myself.”

“Good.” Abby's smile is tiny, but real. “Because I couldn't live with you, either. You're not the only one tilting at windmills in this marriage.”

“Sometimes, that's what it feels like.” Mitch sighs. “Running. Fighting. We've been looking over our shoulders for ten years because of me –”

“– Because you did the right thing –”

“Was it? Was it the right thing?” Mitch pulls back. He tries to free his hands, but Abby won't let go. “Sometimes all I can think is that we've fought really damn hard for so long and it hasn't gotten us anywhere. We're right where we started, just ten years older and a lot more tired.”

“Please tell me you don't think sleeping with Joey Morolto is going to fix anything.” Abby's teasing tone is forced, but it still makes Mitch smile.

“Hardly. But he's part of this.” Mitch remembers how he felt in the courtroom, watching Joey leave. “His life changed, too. We're all caught up in the same mess, trying to find a way through it.”

Abby is silent for a while. “If you're asking for my permission, you have it,” she says eventually, and Mitch can tell that she's choosing her words carefully. “You always do. If you're asking my opinion – God, Mitch, you know him better than I do. If you say he's changed, I believe you.”

Her words are cautious, but hopeful, and it lifts a weight from Mitch's chest. Still, he wants to reassure her. “At the first sign of trouble –”

“– You'll fight for what you want.” Abby kisses him on the cheek before reaching to turn out the light. “That's what we do, isn't it?”

*****

Mitch tugs carefully at the speaker tucked into his ear as he stares out the car window into a tiny greenway park in the center of a traffic circle. There are dozens of people out enjoying the morning sun, walking dogs and playing with their children. A few men in business suits loiter at intervals around the park and the sidewalks on either side; Mitch has no idea if they're Karpov's men or Joey's or innocent bystanders. They all look suspicious to him today.

The sun shines thinly through the branches of a cluster of apple trees, casting cold light onto the empty park bench about half a block from the space Ray had found to stash the car.

“I don't have a good feeling about this,” Ray says again. “There are a dozen buildings across the street where they could hide a sniper.”

“They want the information as much as we want to give it to them,” Mitch says absently, checking his watch, then the park, again.

“Since you don't really want to give it to them, that doesn't reassure me.”

“Where's Tammy?”

Ray doesn't take his eyes off the street. “She'll be here.”

That morning had started with a call from Sal.

“Reiter Circle, nine-thirty a.m. There's a park bench under the apple trees on the southwest side. You're meeting Arseniy Solokoff, one of Karpov's lieutenants. Just you.”

“I'm not coming alone.”

Sal had laughed. “That's funny, neither is he. But just the two of you on the bench. Keep the others back, unless you want to make him nervous.”

They wouldn't be able to retrieve the thumb drive from the safety deposit box at the bank and get to the meeting spot early enough to scope it out. So they sent Tammy to the bank; she'd drop the thumb drive off at the car, and Mitch would go sit on the park bench. At least, that was the plan. Now it's nine-twenty-eight, with no sign of Tammy.

“If she doesn't get here –”

“She'll get here.”

“If she doesn't get here on time, I'll have to stall.”

Ray grabs Mitch's arm. “You are _not_ going to stall the Russian mob.”

“We won't get another meeting, Ray. “

After a few seconds, Ray's grip loosens enough for Mitch to pull away. Then Mitch checks the radio in his ear again and gets out of the car. He tries for nonchalance as he walks down the sidewalk, but he swears he can feel dozens of eyes on him from every direction. He keeps his head up. 

_“Just keep walking, bro. I got your back.”_

The voice in his ear helps steady his nerves. Mitch pulls his coat more tightly around himself and settles onto the park bench. It's nine-thirty.

_“I just got a call from Tammy. There's an accident on 20th; she's stuck.”_

“ETA?” Mitch asks softly, trusting the mic to pick it up.

_“She has no idea.”_

Mitch tries not to let his reaction show. They have to have that thumb drive. They can't afford to bluff, and they can't afford to put off handing it over to another meeting. Mitch is just going to have to buy Tammy some time to get to the park.

A young man in a trench coat sits down at the other end of the bench, his head turned politely to stare the other way down the sidewalk. Mitch keeps his gaze straight ahead as a clump of office workers passes by them.

Mitch has no idea if this is even the right person. They seem young for a lieutenant, but what does he know about the Russian mob? “Lovely morning, isn't it?”

“No.” It's said with a deep Russian accent, but the man doesn't turn his head.

Mitch tries again. “I'm supposed to be meeting someone here –”

“You are.” The man finally turns, letting his coat fall away just enough to show the butt of a gun at his side. 

The wind is suddenly much colder. “I'm not armed.”

“We are.” 

There's an older man in a brown wool coat standing in front of them, someone Mitch hadn't noticed walking up. The man next to Mitch stands up to let the older man sit down. The younger man steps back to the nearest apple tree and leans casually against the trunk. He keeps one hand inside his coat, where he'd showed Mitch the gun.

Mitch takes a deep breath and turns to the new man. “I assume you're Solokoff.”

He smiles, the wrinkles around his eyes standing out sharply. “You may assume that.”

“Mr. Solokoff, my name is Mitch McDeere –“

“I know who you are, Mr. McDeere.” The smile flashes again as a small dog comes by to sniff their shoes, followed shortly by the teenager at the other end of the leash. She glances at them apologetically and pulls the dog away. “You're the man who has caused so much trouble.”

“It was never my intention to cause trouble for your organization, Mr. Solokoff.”

“Of course not. Young men such as yourself never intend the trouble they cause. You were only, what? Pursuing the truth?” The man's blue eyes are cold, even with the smile.

“I was defending my client,” Mitch says shortly. Something isn't right, here.

_“Mitch, I've got a funny feeling about this guy. He's too old to be one of Karpov's lieutenants.”_

“Ah, yes. You work for Joey Morolto.”

Mitch eyes the other man – almost certainly not Solokoff. Who, then? Would Karpov come to a meeting like this? Mitch decides to treat him that way, until he finds out otherwise. “I defended Patrick Walker. But I do not work for the Moroltos, and I am not here representing them. I'm here to provide you with information about Viktor Kurylenko.”

“You wish to accuse him of being a spy for the FBI.”

Mitch drops his voice, timing his words against the approach of another dog walker. “I have recordings of him passing information to the FBI. Information about your organization's activities, your financing, and your plans.”

The man's hand drops casually onto the park bench between them. “You may give me these recordings.”

“I don't have them. They're nearby,” Mitch says quickly. He eyes the young man with the gun, who is still watching them closely. But the older man apparently doesn't signal him to move. “As long as we come to an agreement, I will retrieve them for you.”

“And if I merely have you shot?” The question is casual, almost idle, but it still makes Mitch's heart pound.

But he keeps his voice steady. “Then you will never know which parts of your organization's activities are compromised. The FBI is very interested in building a case against you. I'm sure they'd be happy to continue gathering evidence from the bank accounts Kurylenko identified for them.”

The man turns to Mitch, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he nods. “If these recordings contain the information that you claim, I will order my men to leave you and your family alone, Mr. McDeere. But if they do not, we will kill you. Neither the FBI nor Joey Morolto will be able to hide you from us.”

Mitch tries not to let his emotions show. They have the deal; now he just needs the thumb drive. “I have no need to hide from you.”

_“Tammy's here, Mitch.”_

_“I left the car and ran here, damn it.”_ Her voice is muffled but audible. _“They'd better not shoot you.”_

“Let me get the package.” Mitch starts to get up, but he's stopped by a hand on his arm. The grip is stronger than he would have thought.

“No. Let your associate bring it.”

“All right,” Mitch says, more for Ray and Tammy than for the man beside him.

_“Okay, Mitch."_

_“Let me do it. I'm the one who ran all the way down here from 20th. Besides, they wouldn't shoot a woman, would they?”_

If Ray answers, Mitch doesn’t hear it. He has no doubt that they would shoot a woman, but Tammy knows that, too. It’s just her way of whistling in the dark.

If Mitch hadn’t seen her leave the house that morning, he wouldn’t recognize her. Her bright red hair is hidden in a blonde wig and a fancy scarf; stylish shades cover half her face. She walks like a woman who wants to be watched, sauntering down the sidewalk in a leopard-print coat that drags the eye down the line of her legs.

Even looking for it, Mitch misses the moment she makes the drop. A tiny envelope the size of a keyholder slides into his lap, and he edges his hand around it, hoping he’s half as subtle in his movement as she was. He counts another five people passing by before he lets his hand close around the envelope enough to feel the thumb drive inside.

_“I've got her; she's fine, Mitch.”_

Mitch places the envelope casually on the bench between them. “You'll find everything you need on this thumb drive.”

“For your sake, I hope so.” The other man’s hand comes down next to Mitch’s, and the envelope is gone. In the same motion, the man pushes himself up from the bench.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Solokoff.” Now that the worst is over, Mitch can’t contain his curiosity. “Or should I call you Karpov?”

“Young men think they know so much.” The man’s eyes crinkle up around the corners, but his voice is flat. “The truth is a small thing in a cruel world, Mr. McDeere. Someday, you will regret pursuing it.”

He nods once, politely, and Mitch lets him go. The gunman stares at Mitch the entire time that Karpov is walking away.

_“Could you not give me a heart attack today? When someone gives you a fake name, you go with it.”_

“I know,” Mitch says. His hands are shaking, and he doesn’t start breathing easily until the gunman turns to leave. In a different direction than Karpov, Mitch notes, and wonders how many people in the park today really were mobsters. He doesn’t want to think about how close he came to getting shot.

Mitch waits another five minutes to leave the bench. He circles the park before heading back to the car. “I think we’re clear. Unless you see someone following me?”

 _“Not exactly,”_ Ray answers. _“But I’m pretty sure that’s Sal driving the black SUV pulling up next to you.”_

It is. When Mitch turns to look, the darkened rear window goes down slowly and Joey waves him over. “Get in.”

Mitch hesitates. He wants to go home; there’s too much leftover adrenaline in his system, and he’s already made one stupid mistake this morning. It’d be smarter for him to go home, shower off the fear-sweat, and let Abby hold him while he shakes.

“I said, get in.”

Then again, if Mitch were really as smart as he likes to think, he’d still be in the Witness Protection program. 

“Ray. It looks like I'm catching another ride home.” Mitch slides into the back of the SUV as he speaks. Joey glances at him once then turns back to the window, nervous energy clear in the way the fingers of one hand are tapping on the door frame. Mitch wonders exactly how exposed they are, here. Ray had said there were good sight lines for snipers.

_“If you need back-up –“_

“No, it's okay. We're friends.” He throws a challenging look at Joey, who looks his way long enough to grin back. “Right, Joey?”

“Of course we are.” But Joey doesn’t relax until Sal pulls the SUV back into traffic. 

There’s a pause before Ray answers. _“All right. We're going back to the house. Call us soon, okay?”_

“I'll call you.” Mitch makes a show of turning off the radio and sliding it into his coat pocket. The leather seats are heated, and the warmth feels good after sitting on the park bench in the cold.

Joey finally turns away from the window, and Mitch feels the weight of the other man’s attention settle over him like a blanket. “I heard that Karpov came to meet you.”

“I wondered if that was Karpov.” Mitch tries to put the coldness of the man’s last words out of his mind. “He took the deal.”

“Of course he took the deal. Going to war over a traitor would cost him too much.”

Mitch waits for Joey to call this a favor, to push whatever it is that's between them. If he's reading Joey wrong, this is his last chance to call it off. But Joey just sits companionably in the other seat as Sal drives. 

“Where are we going?” he asks, glancing out the window. He's not going to proposition Joey Morolto with Sal right there in the car, so he needs an opening. 

“I thought you could use a drink.” Joey raises an eyebrow at him. “Or is it too early in the morning for you, Counselor?”

“After the morning I've had? I'd say it's definitely not too early.” Mitch smiles wryly. He doesn't really want the drink, but the question gives him a chance to redirect. “Possibly some place less formal than your office?”

Joey eyes him consideringly for a moment. “There's a well-stocked bar at my townhouse.”

There's a pause after that, as if Joey's giving Mitch another chance to back out. But Mitch has no intention of backing out. “Sounds good.”

*****

Mitch is mildly surprised when they end up in Arlington; for some reason, he'd thought Joey stayed in the District. The townhouse has a gorgeous view of the Potomac River through bare winter branches, and a lack of traffic noise that speaks of high property values for a place this close in.

“It belonged to my father,” Joey explains, leading Mitch past the immaculate formal parlor. “I stay here when I'm in town. Come on.”

The den at the rear of the house actually looks lived in. There are neat piles of textbooks and a sprawl of papers next to a worn leather couch. Mitch has the sudden urge to peek at the papers, maybe strike up a conversation about the subjects Joey is studying. He's never thought about Joey-the-college-student before. It's a surprisingly appealing image. 

Joey takes off his suit jacket as soon as he gets into the room, rolling up his sleeves with a series of movements so automatic, Mitch knows this is a habit. He catches the quirk of Joey's eyebrow and refuses to blush. Yes, he's staring. Mitch takes off his own jacket while Joey pours two tumblers of Scotch from the bar.

Mitch sits down at one end of the couch. Joey hands him a glass and sits a few feet away in one of the side chairs. It's Mitch's turn to raise an eyebrow, and Joey snorts a laugh.

“Are you in some kind of hurry, Counselor?”

“No.” Mitch stretches one arm along the back of the couch and slouches more comfortably against the leather. “But I do have an agenda.”

“Do you, now?” Joey's eyes trail down the lines of Mitch's body, and it's everything Mitch can do not to shift under that gaze. He thinks it might be time to close the distance between them. But then Joey closes his eyes for a moment and laughs again softly. “And here I promised myself I wouldn't let you distract me.”

“From what?”

“From talking.” Joey cradles his drink in both hands and studies the way the light shines in the glass. “I've wanted to kill you since I was fifteen.”

Mitch freezes at the words. They aren't spoken like a threat, but they make the silence of the house prickle along Mitch's skin. He'd known they were alone before, but now he _feels_ it. 

Joey doesn't even look up. “They showed me a picture of this snitch, this coward who set the Feds on us and ran away. I dreamed about killing you with my own hands.” He looks up at that, and Mitch can't read his face. Somewhere in the man in front of him is the memory of a fifteen year-old boy who lost his father because of Mitch's actions. And there's nothing Mitch can do to make that right.

“It wasn’t something that made me hard, but it wasn’t just business,” Joey goes on. “I thought it was personal – and I swear to God if you interrupt me right now, I will cut you.”

Mitch closes his mouth, swallowing the apology that was going to come out. Joey's tone on the threat is so flat, Mitch can't help but believe him. 

“We’ve been watching you for months, Mitch. And it’s clear you’re no coward. So what happened?” Joey takes a drink, quickly, as if he wants to get this over with. “How did they talk you into running?”

Mitch sets his own drink down on the table. The click of the glass is loud in the silence of the house. “Claire. Abby was pregnant.”

“Your family.” Joey nods as if this makes sense. “I don't want to kill you any more, Mitch.” He looks up, eyes blazing. “Don't make me regret that.”

Mitch takes a long, slow breath and tries to think past the lump in his throat. He's never seen this side of Joey, maybe never seen Joey-the-person before at all. For all the talk of violence, it feels like trust. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Maybe I want to make sure there aren't any misunderstandings.” Joey sets his glass down on the table and slides onto the couch next to Mitch. “This isn't a love story, Counselor. I’m not going to suddenly turn to the path of truth and righteousness.”

And it hits Mitch that this isn't safe on Joey's side, either. This isn't a smart move, to allow this kind of intimacy with a man who's already given information to the FBI. What was it Joey said in the car? Going to war over a traitor would cost too much. But he put his men on defending Mitch from the Russians before. Maybe he justified it as protecting Patrick's attorney, but he'd protected Mitch.

There are lines neither of them are willing to cross, and Joey's laying his out there. The least Mitch can do is draw his. “And I’m never going to be your pet lawyer.”

Joey smiles suddenly, a filthy thing that makes Mitch's pulse speed up even before Joey's hand is in Mitch's hair. “Except maybe every once in a while, in private.” Joey tugs once, sharply, and Mitch closes his eyes and leans into it. “I could put you in one of those double-breasted suits you look down on so much, make you suck my cock.”

It's tempting, the image so sharp behind Mitch's eyes that he can almost feel it ghosting across his skin. But it's not everything he wants. “Not this time.”

Mitch can feel the laugh shake Joey's frame as he shifts closer, the words spoken against Mitch's lips. “I can work with that.”


End file.
